Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  Obvious? Meredith questioned. This was the first time she had heard Makepeace’s introduction. It was worse than anything she could have imagined. Leave it to him to play up the Anissa Culligan angle. Culligan had been a pop gospel singer in her day, but her career was on the skids when she started espousing her anti-gay rhetoric. She bought herself a certain amount of national recognition for encouraging the increasingly homophobic climate the country was experiencing. Naming the performing arts center after her seemed an inexcusable slap in the face of all the park’s residents.

  Meredith returned to Makepeace’s introduction, waiting for him to say anything that sounded like an entrance cue.

  “…undoubtedly seen her and her crew as they’ve filmed practically every square inch of our…” Here he clasped his hands together in a blatantly rehearsed gesture, “our little community this week. She is, of course, a great star—”

  The audience recognized her as a light hit her. Their response drowned out the remainder of his words. She stepped further out onto the stage as a spotlight was adjusted to frame her face. This was a departure from the rehearsed entrance originally envisioned, one that would have her standing next to Makepeace while he pattered on about her virtues. Makepeace segued into a rambling discussion of how this visit to the park would be remembered as one of the highlights of her career. From her position, two steps ahead of him and almost directly in front of him, Makepeace was obscured to a large portion of the audience. She had to turn her head to confirm he was displeased with her. His body language was no longer rehearsed; he shook his head and muttered something unintelligible, even to Meredith no more than four feet from him. She was well past caring. As he stepped up to join her at the foot of the stage, she stood tall beside him, conscious of her posture and the half foot advantage she had over the short man. She smiled down at him before turning to the teleprompter.

  “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace, for those words of praise. I shall cherish forever my time here at Fallow Park.”

  “It’s Doctor Makepeace,” he corrected, the fury in his voice palpable to the back row. His face flushed fire engine red though his make-up. The flash of anger in his eyes told her he knew the slight was deliberate.

  “Of course it is,” she reassured in a coddling, let’s-not-argue-with-the-spoiled-child delivery, “Doctor Makepeace.”

  Meredith struggled through the performance. She monotonously walked through her introductions, smiling and gasping as rehearsed, but withholding genuine enthusiasm. Under different circumstances she might have been inclined to add jovial asides and non sequiturs[JK4] to give her delivery an unrehearsed feel. But her well of spontaneity was bone dry. She wished Sybil’s reading had been scheduled for the top of the show. She and the boys would have that much more time before being detected. Unfortunately, Sybil went on second to last. The on-stage reunion was expected to be a crowd pleaser. Even stupid, dumb Makepeace supported the idea of holding Sybil’s bit for the end. To complicate the matter more, upon learning that Sybil walked with difficulty, he insisted upon escorting her onto the stage.

  The acts had not improved since the first day of rehearsals. Some, in fact, had deteriorated. How, Meredith had wondered earlier, when she first saw the acts, had some of these people survived in show business? She blamed the park. It was Fallow Park’s fault this had happened, that these once vibrant, or at least good enough to be employed, performers had lost their edge, their spark. Deprived for so many years of a meaningful outlet in which to express themselves, and no longer dependent on their abilities as performers for their livelihood, they had become rusty. The vocal chords of the singers, the muscles of the dancers, the quick wits of the comics, all had been neglected for too many years. It was like watching a talent show in Palm Springs. The talents of these once celebrated performers had lain fallow too long, unemployed or underemployed. It was just as the parks viewed the residents themselves: they were as useless as wisdom teeth, as superfluous as spleens. Someday people would be born without such pointless accessories. This was the victory of the park: a mandated extinction worthy of the Third Reich.

  Finally it was Sybil’s turn. She acted the scene flawlessly. It was unquestionably the finest moment of the evening. The audience’s respect for her was demonstrated by its solemn hush as she stepped to the center of the stage. Sybil had lost none of her hypnotic urgency, her ability to hold an audience’s attention. By creating a compilation of lines from various plays, Sybil was able to tell a story of her own design. Now, instead of playing a scene or delivering a soliloquy that contained some semblance of a narrative, she was able to speak of love and peace in essentially her own words.

  Meredith stole a glance at Makepeace standing just offstage. He was muttering to himself. He finally turned his back.

  After her reading, Sybil joined Meredith at the microphone before the applause subsided.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder and dutifully performed the paddle-like hand gesture from Pots of Luck. The orchestra played the familiar dum-de-dah-dum-dum-dah sound effect in sync with them. For Pots of Luck fans, the reunion was the success both Del Carroll and Austin Green predicted it would be.

  Makepeace, suddenly standing beside them, but on the opposite side of Sybil, apparently intended as a snub to Meredith in response to her treatment of him at the top of the show, expressed an excessive degree of appreciation. This, Meredith decided, was the true performance of the evening.

  “Take her magic powers away,” a man with a youthful voice shouted from the third row, referencing the plot of an episode of the series.

  “Turn Sybil into a young woman,” another man yelled out. “Like the time Lucy—” He stopped short, possibly cowered by Sybil’s glare. She and Meredith stuck to their script and ignored the audience requests. They kept the chit-chat to a minimum: a planned anecdote about their first meeting; a solemn word about the recently deceased actress who had played Dr. Lindsey’s hot-headed wife; an admonishment from Sybil to Meredith for being too headstrong and impetuous—a speech she had delivered to her several times on the show, complete with a demeaning tone and scolding finger. Before the chuckles from the audience members—at least, those who recognized the speech—subsided, Sybil took her leave. Her exist was complete with dramatic gesturing and flailing arms. Their spotlight dimmed briefly and a special effects flash was set off several feet in front of them.

  Sybil was gone.

  As Del Carroll had predicted, the audience ate it up.

  The final act was Collin Smith, the singer of the chestnut “Can You Chain a Soul?” As he rolled about in his electric wheelchair, Meredith imagined that Sybil was being greeted by Tyler and Carl backstage. As the lounge singer, a forgotten star who never cracked the top forty with any song but this, proceeded with his song, she envisioned Jack standing at the back of the van, urgently waving them to get on board quickly. She imagined that his former partner, the man he had come to rescue, was in the passenger seat in front. She pictured the van clearing the front gates, an image that brought her the only moment of comfort she had known since she had taken it upon herself to change the plans and incorporate Sybil into the escape. But then the song was over. This seemed impossible. It felt as though it dragged on for ten minutes in rehearsals.

  The crowd, three thousand strong, cheered senselessly.

  Meredith, grasping at anything to prolong the performance, joined them. She slapped her hands together until they hurt. “Amazing,” she shouted. “Collin, come back out here!”

  As he rolled back, she increased her aggressive applause and nodded to the audience with an open-mouthed grin. Her encouragement was contagious and members of the audience, gradually at first, rose to their feet. Meredith smiled at the elderly man, but her joy stemmed from the knowledge that the van was now at least beyond the gates of the park. The combination of Jack’s detailed study of the route, coupled with Sybil’s backseat driving, would surely bring them to the border within twelve minutes—ten if Jack caved to Sybil’s inevitable
urging to break the sound barrier.

  “You know,” Meredith said in a confiding manner, “I used to sing that song in my nightclub act. I did a slower, bluesier version. I would love it if you would let me sing it to you Collin.” The audience jumped on this bandwagon, warmly applauding her proposal. She added, for their benefit, “But only if all of you will join me!”

  The somewhat confused assembly continued to clap while Meredith quickly consulted with the conductor. “Oh,” she said when she returned to the microphone, “I forgot something.” She walked back to the edge of the stage for further discussion with the conductor. He told her what tempo he would use and, upon her insistence, had a trumpet give her a middle C. Meredith, who had never studied music, nodded agreeably, though none of this meant anything to her.

  Back at the microphone a moment later, Meredith began the song and motioned for everyone to sing along. The orchestra had slowed the song to half its former tempo. She did well enough with the opening line, but thereafter leaned next to Collin’s chair so he could whisper the lyrics to her. But as she bent next to him, ostensibly to learn about the chains that bind, the soul that must be free, she pictured instead a white van drawing up to the Canadian border.

  Meredith sang badly; in truth, her heart was not in it. She had never actually performed the song before. The performance was a catastrophe, but it served its purpose. A sad note to end her American career on it might seem, but she considered it one of the most satisfying moments in her long mosaic of a career. That the audience—at least the non-St. Claire fans of the crowd—was tired and only somewhat engaged was irrelevant. By now the van had to be safely into Canada; her work here was done. Still, she had a captive audience, somewhat bored and listless though it had become; it seemed foolish to take chances. After walking Collin half of the way to the wing, she returned to the microphone. “What a magical night!” she shouted with a toothy grin. “I can’t remember when, in my very, very long time in this business, I’ve had such a rewarding evening.” She turned and pulled her stool over to the microphone. She settled in. “I did a television show some years back.” She paused as some in the auditorium murmured warmly like purring cats and a few clapped. “You may have heard of it.”

  The hard-core fans were all over this, laughing and cheering.

  “Well,” she practically drawled, making sure every word she uttered took several seconds. “There was this one episode we did…” She deliberately let the sentence dangle. The van must have come to a stop. The fake passports could now be discarded in favor of full disclosure. Political asylum was assured; and Jack was on a first name basis with the officials who would expedite the application process for the whole group. Possibly the police were already on hand. Maybe the U.S. embassy was on the phone. Were people in Washington appraised of the situation? It was just a question of time, she thought, before the media would be all over it. After imposing her plan B on Jack and the others, there had been no time to prepare herself for how the events would play themselves out for her, left behind as she was to face the aftermath in the United States. The original conception had her in the van in Canada now, reaping the benefits of the orchestrated escape. Her new reality was only now sinking in. She remembered a tabloid headline that derailed a flop show that was cancelled mid-season: “Quintessential Starlet Meredith St. Claire Crash-Lands on Planet Earth!” She expected there would be more headlines with exclamation marks in her future.

  “The isolation tank episode!” a man in the front row called out, drawing her back to her present circumstances.

  “The identical twin cousin!” another chimed in. “Talk about the wicked cousin!”

  “The one where Lucy loses her powers!”

  It was as though she were a great concert artist and her die-hard fans were requesting songs.

  Makepeace, having broken away from his animated conversation with some elite looking types in suits, was at her side. She had expected him to pull the plug eventually, but was somewhat nonplussed when he assertively placed himself between her and the microphone.

  “Of course, Merry could recount all of her adventures on Pots of Luck. We know she has great stories. She could tell ‘em all and we could stay all night!”

  The audience erupted with applause at the suggestion.

  “I’d like that,” she agreed, giving the outward appearance she was soaking up the audience’s reaction while she was actually focusing on how her stalling skills could next be employed. “This one show we did—but let me set it up first, because you have to understand the background. This was early in the second season. No!” she stopped blank, as though the audience’s grasping the air date of the show was of vital importance. In truth, she had not even selected an anecdote to share. “I’m wrong: it was the third.” She seemed to ponder this a moment. “No, no, I was right the first time, it was the second—”

  “However,” Makepeace continued, “we are constrained by the realities of the park. We have so many seniors and disabled residents who have been bused in here tonight, and who will be taking buses back to their units—excuse me, their homes. Unfortunately, it’s ten forty-five, and the bus drivers go into overtime at eleven thirty. Sadly, we must call it a night.”

  Meredith’s filibuster had come to an end. No matter, she assured herself; she had done it. She could see that van so clearly now, she was sitting in it herself. The Anissa Culligan Theater resounded with applause, but the clapping members of the audience were obscured. She could see the back of Jack’s head as he sat behind the wheel. Sybil was beside him now, as she was certain to have booted Jack’s former boyfriend to the back of the van. She was pointing and directing and exerting as much control as she could from the passenger’s seat. Tyler and Carl held hands and kept stealing glances at each other before returning their gazes to the dark Canadian roadside; it was like a honeymoon for them. Jack’s friend, rescued from his fate of repetitive soliloquies in a prison cell, was quiet; he was too in awe of the turn of events to do anything but absorb it all as it happened. He was, Meredith knew, trying to memorize every detail for future reflection and discussion. Ahead were the Canadian police cars, the escort taking them to a decent roadside motel.

  “A very good evening to you all!” Meredith shouted. The audience erupted, its high decidable response in sharp contrast to the largely lackluster show. She bowed a deep, diva bow. “Chuck,” she said, “this applause is for you, too.”

  It took little encouragement to get him to stand beside her again to recognize the audience’s ovation.

  At last the curtain came down and the Big Show was really over.

  Meredith turned on Makepeace without a word and coolly walked to the staircase that would take her down to her dressing room and the beginning of the grim future she faced.

  “Meredith,” one of the stage hands called out as she walked by. He and a collection of performers and technicians were huddled around a television. The documentary crew, including both camera people, looked to her without a sound. They turned their cameras to her, then back to the television, and again to her for her reaction. One of the technicians found the remote control and turned up the volume; it had been muted during the performance. Meredith stared with disbelief at the photos of Sybil and Jack Harbour.

  “…once celebrated actress was probably best known as the queen of the leprechauns on Pots of Luck…”

  Meredith had difficulty processing what she was seeing, but pushed further into the collection assembled around the screen. “What?” she asked. “What is it?!”

  No one in the group answered. All eyes were on her; it seemed the story had been running for some time and the collection of viewers were already familiar with the details.

  “…had recently been moved to Fallow Park. She made headlines when it was learned that she was a lesbian and was interred in Chrystal Park eleven years ago. Ironically, her Pots of Luck costar, Meredith St. Claire, was visiting Fallow Park at the time of her escape…”

  Highlights of Syb
il’s career were mentioned; a clip from Pots of Luck and stills from some of her stage appearances flashed by. All of this was known or knowable information. The copy read like the prepared obituaries the media stockpiled for celebrities. What had prompted this telecast in the first place? What, she again demanded of the crowd, was the story? Meredith had come into the broadcast too late. A discussion of Jack followed with a variety of photographs and stock news clips from past political rallies. She grabbed the arm of the assistant director beside her.

  “What has happened?” she insisted of him.

  The television report continued to alternate focus from Sybil to Jack, emphasizing what events had originally brought them to national prominence. Of Jack the reporter stated: “Mr. Harbour was a Robin Hood-type vigilante well known for his opposition to the parks. No official word from Fallow Park or any government official has been issued. It has been the Federal Government’s long-held policy to minimize Harbour’s significance and to refuse to comment on him. Believed to be a resident of Paris, the U.S. has failed in its numerous attempts to extradite him…”

  “They’re dead,” the assistant director told her. “They’re all dead. No one could have escaped from that explosion.”

  Epilogue

  “Is this really necessary?” Meredith complained to the guard. “It’s not as if I’m going anywhere. There’s no reason to handcuff me to a piece of furniture like a rabid dog.”

  The guard, a member of the park’s high-security detail, stared blankly at her. He wore the uniform of the park’s internal police and had all the trappings, including a gun belt. He had been assigned the task of snapping the handcuffs on her and attaching her to the desk in Makepeace’s office.

  Makepeace, who had been surprisingly quiet as Meredith’s involvement was revealed, watched and listened more than he spoke. He was on the verge of a smile, but just as the corners of his mouth betrayed his merriment, something, a sense of the somberness of the situation, seemed to snap him back to a stoic expression. Where had he hidden this degree of self-control during the past four days? This, she came to realize, was his enforcer training kicking into high gear. He was making a big showing of his understanding of the gravity of the situation. Once they were alone, Meredith suspected it would be another story. He directed his staff with gestures and nods and monosyllabic words. He was delivering a grand performance, milking every second he could as he demonstrated the extent to which they had been prepared for this moment. She suspected he secretly reveled in this blasé manner he put forward. Playing it cool though he may have been, there was no mistaking the fact that he knew he had the upper hand. Meredith seethed at his subtle gloating.